


Raging Son

by cadwgan



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Illness, Schizophrenia, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3630876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadwgan/pseuds/cadwgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>None of us is innocent. Some are born this way, but others are made.</p><p>Murphy's past // Murphy's redemption</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Start at the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> All written and will be uploaded efficiently. 
> 
> I took some liberties and used some characters that were mentioned but never appeared on the show. But pretty much all of it belongs to Not Me.
> 
> Mostly Murphy character study. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Murphy falls ill (past) and fades out (present).

He killed his father. And he deserved everything that had come to him since. John had always been the bad guy. Contrary to what everyone else believed of him, he knew this truth. He had known before anyone else, except his mother. She had known him for what he was the whole time.

Dear mother. She’d been entirely content to let him die from the flu, probably knew that somehow he’d live to fuck everything up. And fuck it up he did. Spectacularly, really. Just like everything else he touched after the day his father was floated. He couldn’t even blame his mother for drinking herself to death. He probably would have too if he had to look himself in the face every day. No, he just had to live with everything he’d done. He probably would have found the same fate if his mother had ever left him his rations to trade. Without that possibility, he’d resorted instead to stealing what he needed- alcohol to dull the pain, razors to control it. Inevitably he found himself in the Skybox, ruined and ready to rejoin his father beyond the Ark in the infinite void. That sounded quite appealing to his ravaged mind.

And then Earth happened. Being on the ground was the first opportunity for hope in what seemed like a lifetime. He was nobody there, with the chance to be anybody. He could have been the man his father had seen in him, but instead he became the monster he knew himself to be. If hell existed, his mother was probably down there cackling and waiting for him to join her. 

At first, it all seemed like the harmless bumping of egos that all teenagers are subject to, until it wasn’t anymore, and any hope for redemption vanished alongside the 100’s innocence.

Now he found himself in a familiar position- utterly broken and hurting in a place so deep within himself that the only way to reach it was to cut it out. His soul, his heart, or whatever he had to so that he could put an end to the torture he relived every time he closed his eyes and the guilt and self-loathing that permeated his every waking thought.

Yet again, he had let himself hope. Jaha’s faith had inspired his own, and he believed that the City of Light could be the answer that saved them all. Instead he had found one psychopath, a hologram-slash-super-computer, which was hell-bent on destroying the world a second time around with the help of psychopath #2, ex-chancellor Jaha, who had been driven mad by the journey. John had had the audacity to think that his own idiotic self, psychopath #3 but perhaps the worst of them all, could finally be the good guy—do the right thing—and warn the others. He’d barely reached the desert before being clubbed and beaten an inch from death by raiders (who must have been disappointed to find he had nothing of use or worth to steal).

The least they could have done was finish the job, he thought, eyes blurred by unshed tears as he stared up at the sky waiting to see his father at last. Knowing that he was too far gone to have that chance.

\-------------------------

“Please, dad. I can’t go to school today. I’m sick,” John whined from beneath his threadbare blanket.

“Uh-huh. This wouldn’t have anything to do with those kids who were teasing and pushing you around yesterday, would it?” Eoin Murphy replied knowingly, crouching to be at eye-level with his son on the bottom bunk. 

“No! No one was teasing me. They were just being annoying, and I got angry, so I hit them and they hit me back.”

Eoin did his best to stop the sigh that was born out of habit. Sometimes he wondered if his son would ever grow out of using his fists as a substitute for voicing his feelings.

“Well, neither of those things is okay. They won’t take this so lightly next year when you join the other secondary students, bud. Best to build up some patience and thick skin. We’ll work on that, right?” Eoin could see the slight motion of a head bobbing up and down in the ripples of the blanket. “Good. Now, time to get up. No playing hooky today!”

“Huh?” John finally emerged from underneath the covers.

“It’s an old Earth term. Means skipping school,” he explained, then paused to examine John’s face. “You do look a little flushed…”

“I told you!”

Eoin laid the back of his hand against his son’s forehead. “Hmm…you’re a bit warm as well. No school for you, today. I’ve got to get to work, but when mom comes home she can take you to see Dr. Griffin.” He rose to find his water ration for the day but was stopped in his tracks when John stood suddenly and latched onto his wrist.

“No, dad, wait. Can’t you take me? Please?” he pleaded with his father. Eoin smiled sadly.

“John, I’m sorry. You know what happens if I miss work.” He passed his water to John before placing a kiss on his temple and turning to leave. “Wait here until your mother comes,” instructed Eoin. He closed the door behind him, leaving John alone in their quarters.

\-------------------------

When he awoke again it was, as he often did lately, to immediate disappointment. The world seemed intent on letting him teeter on death’s threshold, only to pull him back when it started to look like the most appealing option.

He slowly became aware of water wetting his lips, demanding entrance, and he reflexively parted his lips to let it in. It felt coarse hitting the back of his throat, and he couldn’t suppress the contented sigh that escaped afterwards.

“So you are awake, then,” observed an unfamiliar voice.

John’s dry throat protested when he attempted to respond.

“Take this. Drink. We must move before the raiders return.” The cloaked figure thrust the flask into his waking hands, then stood to adjust the packs on her steed, an animal that was unlike any he’d seen before on Earth or in biology class on the Ark. If he had to guess it resembled an irradiated cross between a zebra and an elk, luckily with only one head.

He blearily eyed the flask and took another long drink. “Who are you? And why are you helping me?” Murphy questioned, voice cracking along the words.

“I am Luna of Sea Kru. And I help you because you are hurt. Do you wish to ask more of me or may we continue on?” She forcefully tightened a strap and turned to face him. He expected the scowling face of a grounder smeared with charcoal but instead her face was adorned with clean black lines and a blindfold.

The possibility that she was yet another deformed outcast wasting away in the Dead Zone passed his mind. “No. No questions.”

“Good.” She offered her hand, which he presently took and then allowed himself to be hauled to his feet with surprising ease. In fairness he had lost a substantial amount of weight in the past months of malnourishment, and Luna was by no means scrawny. Lean, maybe.

“You are of the Sky People, are you not?” she asked, shoving him towards their ride. A hand on his lower back guided him as he just barely managed to swing a leg over the animal’s massive back. Luna followed him much more gracefully, situating herself in front so that she could hold onto its antlers—presumably they acted in lieu of reigns.

“I’m not of any people…anymore.”

She nodded in understanding. “Well, if that is not where you are headed, we can part ways whenever you wish.” Murphy said nothing, assuming his silence would communicate his approval, though he was curious as to what business was leading her on a path towards the Arkers. With a nudge to the beast’s flank, they were off.

“I’ve got one more question. How are you supposed to know where you’re going if you can’t see?”

Luna turned, and Murphy had the distinct feeling that if she hadn’t been wearing the blindfold she would be staring quite uncomfortably. “Just because I cannot use my eyes, does not mean that I cannot see.” 

_Fantastic,_ he despaired. _Another Jaha._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> per usual, un-betaed. my apologies and feel free to point out any errors. will fall into step a bit more in the next chapter.
> 
> titles from Among Savages songs.
> 
> let me know what you think!


	2. Son Greets the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Murphy journeys to Camp Jaha and the fate of his father is explained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated: battle scene on 30-03 at 13:10

“All right, I gotta know. Why are you looking for the Ark? I guess you must have heard about the truce with the grounders, but, hate to break it to you, they won’t help you unless you’ve got something to give in return.”

Luna chuckled at his cynicism, and the sound nearly sent him into shock. Sure he hardly knew her, but from the time they had spent confined to the same carizou (she’d informed him of the animal’s correct name early on) she hardly seemed capable of amusement, much less laughter. Only stoicism.

“I desire no help. Besides, I could ask the same of you.”

Murphy played the comment off nonchalantly, but he found himself considering what exactly he was doing in this position. The truth was he had no idea. Maybe he really had nothing better to do. Or maybe being alone was driving him further into insanity, and he still had some twisted desire to redeem himself with the others who had cast him out. _Or maybe you know this is the right thing to do_. No. That wasn’t it. He supposed he’d always been that way, crawling back to anyone who ever once showed him kindness, even if that kindness had long since run dry. In at least one way being despised was better than being banished. There was some sort of relationship there, however poisonous, even in hatred. He’d probably do anything just to have someone there again, with him, for him, or against him.

He’d almost forgotten his question when Luna decided to respond at last.

“There are still others of the Sky people out there.” She paused for what he guessed was dramatic effect.

“I know; I saw them,” he cut in. “A bunch of them all bloody and bent at the bottom of the crater.”

“Yes, many are dead, but not all. One of your ships landed in the sea, in the shallows near my people. We were able to save most of them, and some supplies were salvaged.”

“Another station?” He had to laugh at that. If Luna found his mockery of the good news insane, she hid it expertly. Who could blame him? The adults had been right all along. There were others alive out there, able to come to their aid, and instead they had insisted on turning to the grounders. He spared a brief moment to wonder how that alliance had panned out. Probably disastrously, just as he had warned it would. He wouldn’t be surprised to return and find the Mt. Weather kids dead, or maybe even the whole camp. They were riding towards an empty ship, he thought. “So they made you look for us? Why’d you agree to that? Seems a shit job to me.” 

There was short moment of silence in which he realized, with only mild surprise, that he had said us. Luckily, Luna let it slide.

“I did not _agree_ , I decreed it. It is the job of the commander to conduct all correspondence with other tribes. I knew the camp was far so I elected to travel alone and spare the others the unnecessary journey. If all is well, Romulus will bring them word of the outcome,” Luna explained, motioning towards the sky. Through the thick foliage, Murphy spotted a bird circling overhead. He was a shade embarrassed for not having noticed its presence before.

As if she could read his thoughts, Luna spoke, “Sometimes it is our eyes that keep us from seeing.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” he countered in frustration. He was beyond done with everyone’s mystical, inspirational bullshit.

To his curiosity, she began to untie her blindfold. “You rely too much on your sight. It makes your other senses, your inner-sight, your intuition, weak.” Murphy flinched when she moved to place the blindfold over his eyes. This seemed only to amuse her further. “Would I keep you alive for two days only to kill you now?” 

_Yes,_ was his first thought. Then he thought better of it. She’d done nothing to indicate she was like the other grounders who’d put him through hell and mutilated every inch of his body. He shrugged, and upon realisation that her clouded eyes hadn’t registered the movement, responded with a noncommittal grunt.

Her wide-toothed grin was the last thing he saw before the soft fabric covered his eyes.

\-------------------------

“Dr. Griffin! I came as soon as my shift was over. Where is he?”

Abby pulled off her gloves and emerged from behind a privacy curtain. The nearly wild look in the man’s eyes broke her heart. She was dreading having to break the dismal prognosis to him. “Mr. Murphy, please, sit.” She motioned to a stiff metal chair by her desk.

“If it’s all right with you, I’d really like to just see my son now,” he answered, curt but polite as ever.

“Eoin, I’m afraid that’s not possible right now. Dr. Jackson is working to bring his fever down at the moment. As soon as he’s done, you’ll be able to see John.”

Eoin collapsed into the chair, burying his head in his hands. Abby felt for the man. He held a lot of responsibility in his family. Whispers about his wife’s troubles were always floating around the adults in the Ark—their craving for drama rarely satisfied—but Abby was one of few people who knew the true extent of her mental battles (as well as her attempts at self-medication). She wished she didn’t have to deliver the news that things were about to get even worse.

“Just tell me it will be all right,” Eoin appealed, voice muffled by his hands.

“Eoin…”

“Don’t. Just…don’t. Don’t talk to me like, like I—” He stood up, exasperated. “What is it? What can you do?” he spoke again, suddenly calm and rational.

Abby retrieved John’s chart from her desk, even though she didn’t need it to know his son’s diagnosis. “It seems that John has come down with the flu. It’s progressing quickly.”

“The flu? That’s treatable, though, right? Plenty of people get the flu, and it goes away on its own.” Eoin paced restlessly between the door and desk.

“Normally, yes, but the aggressive onset suggested there might be some other underlying issue at play. We ran a blood test and found his T-cell count to be alarmingly low.” She paused for the inevitable barrage of questions, but Eoin merely listened intently. She steeled herself for what was to come next. “We also detected arrhythmia of the heart. An EKG implicated coarctation of the aorta coupled with a ventricular septal defect.”

“What does that mean? Is it serious?”

“They’re congenital defects of the heart. He was born with them but they were mild enough to escape detection. Based on these observations and other test results, we think your son may have an immunodeficiency disorder, namely DiGeorge syndrome.”

“What—I don’t even know what that is. He’s never seemed sick before,” Eoin sputtered. “I just don’t understand how this is all happening now.”

“It’s not uncommon for infections to reveal other congenital conditions, or for these conditions to aggravate standard infections. This would be something that has been present since birth, in his DNA. It would be very helpful to us, to John, if you could think back and tell us about anything abnormal, health-wise or otherwise, concerning his development and childhood.”

Eoin continued to pace, gesturing frantically with his hands as he answered. “Just your standard headaches and nosebleeds, not much more than any other kid, maybe once a week?”

Abby noted this on the patient medical history form, opting not to inform him that this was in fact abnormal, for fear of causing further panic. “Anything else? Anything else at all strange?”

Eoin wracked his brains for anything else that could help his son. “He, uh, he has difficulty in school sometimes. The teachers say he fights with other kids a lot, and he was slow to pick up reading as a kid. He gets frustrated easily, particularly with schoolwork—or reading and writing really—but he’s a smart kid. Really intelligent and great recall.” He paused as he considered the possibility of other warning signs. “Sometimes he has trouble breathing, when they do physical assessments at school. That’s what the teachers tell me. It’s never been a problem, though.”

“That’s very helpful, Mr. Murphy. Thank you. I’m going to see how Dr. Jackson is going. If you’ll sit down for a moment, you’ll be able to see your son soon.”

As Abby spun on her heels to check on John, Eoin lept forward to grab her shoulder. “Please, Dr. Griffin. Just make him better.” Unshed tears shone in his eyes. “He’s the only good thing I have left.”

\-------------------------

“What do you hear?” the commander tested passing a canteen to his hands. 

The carizou had been meandering at a slow pace for a few hours before Luna declared he was in need of rest. They were less than a day’s ride from Camp Jaha, but they’d decided to stop for the night.

“A whole lot of nothing,” Murphy retorted, to which Luna sighed, bored of Murphy’s disagreeableness. 

“Bullshit.”

Murphy choked on the water. He hadn’t thought grounders knew any English curses, much less that Luna would use them so casually.

“You’ve been listening for hours now. Tell me what you hear.”

Murphy settled back against the tree trunk; something about her demeanour made him oblige. She was warming up to him and vice versa. She was being kind and showing him unnecessary trust, not unlike Bellamy when they had first landed. Except he couldn’t imagine Bellamy inconveniencing himself to rescue a useless stray. _What about Mel?_ his subconscious reminded him. He didn’t want to think about Bellamy right now. Bellamy’s betrayal had hurt him profoundly. He was just another person who’d once cared, only to turn on him. Still, a part of him actually missed being in his commanding presence. How fucked up was that? After all he’d done to him…but he was no saint himself.

“I hear a stream.” Murphy didn’t need his eyes to know that Luna was growing slightly annoyed with him, though she didn’t really seem too bothered about his antics—finding him droll more than anything else.

“I just brought you water, _eedota_. Try again.” Luna moved to grab something from her pack.

“Okay, I hear you standing, and you’re pulling something out of your pack. Some cloth, like a blanket or something. And now arrows.” Luna stopped abruptly.

“Good. Continue.”

Murphy smirked at the small victory. He was beginning to like this exercise. “I hear your bird, in the trees. Up there.” He pointed to where he heard the rustling feathers. “Not too high up though.” He paused to listen for anything else notable. “There’s a fly or something buzzing around.”

“Where?”

Murphy stilled, focusing on the hum of the insect and its changing intensity. Just as it approached his left hand, he stealthily snatched it from the air. “Here,” he answered smugly, opening his palm as if to prove it. “Come on, admit it. You’re impressed.”

Luna scoffed. “I didn’t say otherwise. You’re more perceptive than even you realise.” 

That may well have been the nicest thing anyone had said to him since his father died, Jaha’s maniacal faith crap aside. 

“You can take it off now,” she instructed. “We should try to find some food before we rest.”

“I think I’ll keep it on for now. This is starting to get fun," he replied, standing for his place by the tree. “Give me something to work with here.” He stretched his hand out in her general direction.

“Do as you please, but I’ll keep the weapons to myself. You’re not that good yet.”

“All right. Soon, though. I mean, I’m a natural.”

\---------------------------

“What’s happening? Why is he doing that?” Eoin panicked. John was unresponsive as his body convulsed and limbs trashed about.

“Jackson, please escort Mr. Murphy out of the room!” Abby barked, doing her best to turn John on his side without hurting either of them. Jackson looked between Abby and Eoin, hesitating, before jumping to action.

“No! I need to be with my son,” Eoin declared defiantly, jerking his arm out of Jackson’s reach.

“Fine, then stay back and let me do my job. So that I can save your son.”

Eoin could do nothing but obey and watch in abject shock as his son continued to seize, only stilling when Abby injected some liquid from a clear vial into his IV. He let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding when she finally snapped off her gloves and jotted something down on the chart.

“Just tell me the truth. What are the chances here?” His face was set in a resigned expression, but his eyes were pleading, as if he wanted to be put out of his misery. Abby was a medical professional; this neither was the first nor would it be the last time she had to inform a parent that their child was dying,

“As you know, in most others the flu runs its course in a few weeks, and eventually the patient recovers. Unfortunately, due to your son’s unique circumstances, the flu combined with his immune deficiency make him susceptible to other complications. I wish it wasn’t this way, but…your son has contracted pneumonia.”

“And…?” he prodded expectantly.

“Nothing is certain, but we’ve given him antibiotics, and so far his body’s been unresponsive.”

“What are you saying? Is he going to die or can you do something?!” Eoin bit back the outburst and settled for slamming his fist against the wall. Abby’s heart ached for him, but she was not a miracle worker. The boy was facing abysmal odds.

“Jackson, could you give Mr. Murphy and me a moment alone?” Relief washed over her colleague’s face. He was still green and uncomfortable with confrontational parents.

He mumbled a terse, “Of course,” and retreated from the room.

Eoin approached her, suddenly calm again, almost calculating. “Abby, there must be something else you can do. You know what will happen to Emma if John dies; she couldn’t handle it.” This was the first time he’d mentioned his wife since John had fallen ill.

“Eoin, you know Emma’s condition is manageable with therapy and care. We’ve done everything we can for John. I’m sorry. We’ve already pushed the limits of medicinal rations.” She immediately regretted sharing that information when she saw the wheels turning in his head.

“If you could give him more, antibacterials, would it help?” he probed, voice low.

“There’s no way of knowing, but it’s simply not possible. Overuse of rationed medicine is illegal.”

“But it could work?”

Abby hesitated, then nodded against her better judgement.

“Then do it. If they catch you, tell them it was me. I did it, alone.”

“No. I won’t do that. You’ll be floated, Eoin.”

“I know.” He moved to his son’s side. “Do it.”

\-------------------------

“John, wake up.”

Murphy startled awake, fighting the hand over his mouth until he realised who it was. When he stopped knocking about, Luna removed her hand.

“We’ve been followed,” she whispered, not nearly as distressed by the information as she should be. “Take off the blindfold and grab my sword.” He jumped to action, but she held him back with a hand to the chest. “Slowly. We must let them think they still have the element of surprise.”

He understood. Rising to his feet silently, he removed the blindfold from his eyes and tiptoed to Luna’s pack. He kept his hand on the hilt of her sword, and waited for Luna to notch an arrow before slowly withdrawing it from its sheath. She motioned towards a cluster of trees and bushes, making her approach. John followed immediately behind.

Without warning, an arrow came whizzing through the air from behind him. He bailed to the left, but was not fast enough, the arrow striking him in the shoulder. Luckily, his tolerance for pain had grown since being on Earth and he didn’t spare a thought for the injury. He turned and ducked just in time to avoid a slashing knife to the face. He was suddenly forced backwards by a brute of a man, using his sword as skilfully as he could to parry the man’s attacks, but he was no warrior. He was just a boy. A sick little boy, he told himself. It was finally his time to die.

Still, his limbs refused to capitulate, landing several blows to the man’s face and body, by which he was hardly fazed. He could just barely register Luna struggling against another attacker behind him, perhaps more than one. She released an uncharacteristic yelp as he heard her bow clatter to the dirt. The brief distraction earned him a deep gash to his face, and the shock of this allowed the man to deal another to his abdomen, and yet another to his arm. He was overwhelmed. The man was a reaper by the look of it and certainly acted so, savagely twisting Murphy's arm and wrenching a pained scream from his throat. The sword fell uselessly from his hand. He barely registered the man picking up his sword and turning it against him. Only the slices to his skin registered, though he quickly lost count. 

With a wild movement, he succeeded in knocking both the knife and sword out of the man’s hands, but this only earned him a chokehold. _This is it. This is where I die._ He reflexively kicked and flailed as he felt the breath leave his lungs, eerily similar to the panic attacks he’d seen his mother suffer before inheriting them himself. In a split second of sheer _Please, I don’t want to die yet_ panic, Murphy latched his teeth onto the attacker’s loose hand and bit down with every ounce of strength he had left. Blood dripped onto his face, but the assailant simply tore his hand free, punched him square in the face, and then repeatedly in other areas. He heard, rather than felt, bones cracking and couldn't determine whether they were his or Luna's. The hands returned to his throat and at last he surrendered the fight, gasping helplessly for air. In that moment, he felt the noose around his neck again. He was back in camp, surrounded by a jeering lynch mob. Then he was back in his room on the Ark, toes grazing the chair. Blackness crept into the edges of his vision.

But fate had other plans.

He heard Luna approach, before he saw her, before he felt her blood spilling onto his face. With an unfathomable amount of strength for the state she was in, she lurched forward, burying a dagger into the man’s forehead, then collapsed, followed shortly by the motionless corpse.

With a heaving exertion of her last energy, Luna made to crawl towards her gear—for what he was unsure. In the periphery of his vision, he just barely glimpsed a fallen warrior climbing to his feet and stumbling towards her, spear drawn.

"Luna," he tried weakly. He couldn't tell if the word had even left his throat. An overwhelming urge to protect the woman who had protected him bloomed in his core. He scrambled at his side for the abandoned sword, sliding out from underneath the body on top of him. His fingers clamped around metal and he felt the edge burrow deep in his flesh as he pulled the weapon towards him.

"Hey. Hey! Over here, bitch!" Murphy shouted, as soon as he was within range. He leaned forward to meet the reaper and cut the sword viciously, repeatedly through the air. The last sensations he registered were spewing blood in the air, over his skin, the weight of another body on him, blinding pain drilling into his abdomen, agony—before he willfully slipped into unconsciousness.

\-------------------------

“Jackson, I need a chest tube, now!”

John was spewing blood from his mouth, gurgling, as Abby tried to clear his throat. It had started out as a hacking cough, then devolved quickly into severe vomiting coloured crimson with blood.

“Oh, god. Oh, god.” Eoin chanted as he watched on from the sideline. The medicine hadn’t worked. John was dying. She had warned him that this was the likely outcome, but he had let himself hope. Hell, he’d committed a crime. But he would do it again if there was the slightest chance it would save his John.

As if on cue, a group of guards marched into the room, guns at their sides, but fingers on the triggers, ready for noncompliance. Commander Shumway stepped forward. “Mr. Murphy, you’ve been found guilty of theft. We need you to come with us.”

Eoin ignored him, approaching John’s bedside. Abby only spared Shumway a passing glance and a blunt, “We’re in the middle of something here.”

“Mr. Murphy, this is not a suggestion. This is an order.”

“Goddamnit, man. Can’t you see my son is dying?!” he exploded, shoving Shumway aside. The guards reacted immediately, drawing their shock sticks and aiming their weapons.

“Commander Shumway, now is really not the time,” Jackson spoke up timidly. Eoin was too shocked to voice his gratitude for the man. Shumway only stared him down, clearly not amused by Jackson's sudden show of courage.

“It’s done.” Abby informed. John’s hacking coughs were noticeably absent. He was wheezing, but breathing. Blood siphoned from his lungs, through the tube and out of his body.

After several tense moments, John turned his head. “Dad?” he spoke weakly. 

“John! John, it’s me. I’m here. Dad’s here,” he sobbed, grabbing his son’s hand.

Shumway pulled him back immediately. “A crime is a crime, Mr. Murphy. I’m sorry. There is no special treatment.” 

Eoin allowed the tears to fall as the commander slapped restraints onto his wrists. His son was alive. He made no protest when Shumway dragged him from John’s bedside.

“Dad? Dad!! Where are you taking him??! Please, don’t take him!!” John cried, as he was led away.

“Take care of him, Abby,” he begged as Dr. Griffin looked on in shock.

She nodded once, mouthing _I’m sorry_. Then they turned the corner, and he was gone, but John’s voice still echoed in the halls.

“NO! Please! Please, don’t take my dad! Please!! DAD!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and the others will appear in the next chapter, And we'll finally learn what Murphy did to get in the Skybox.
> 
>  _eedota_ = idiot and my poor attempt at including some made-up grounder speak.
> 
> In regards to the illnesses and all: I did a lot of research, but I'm no doctor (yet) so the medical reasoning here is by no means sound.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and let me know what you think.


	3. Sucked the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Murphy is surrounded by death and Bellamy comes to his rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags/trigger warnings: suicide attempt, schizophrenia, implied/referenced self-harm apply to this chapter.
> 
> \--- indicates a sort of flashback within a flashback

The sound of endless retching penetrated the protection of his covers, echoing around the confines of his headspace. He pulled the blankets further over his head, hoping that for once if he ignored the problem long enough it would just disappear. But the vomiting never ended, not unless he intervened. Steeling himself for a battle, he tore the covers off of his body and swung his legs over the lip of the top bunk. The bottom was reserved for his mother now, if she was ever home and lucid enough to properly sleep instead of passing out. He dropped down, landing squarely on his feet, and hesitantly approached his mother, who was doubled over at the doorway emptying the contents of her stomach onto the floor. He shouldn’t sympathise with her, not after all of the neglect and emotional abuse, but he knew in his heart of hearts that she wasn’t to blame.

Ever since he could remember, his mother had been troubled, but it took him some years to understand just how deeply. Back then his father used to always shelter him from his mother’s destructive tendencies. His father was gone now, Murphy berated himself. He couldn’t think in ‘used to’s. It was his job to take care of his mother now. 

But he was still just a kid. All the other boys and girls his age were starting secondary schooling and enjoying their youth. Someone should have been taking care of _him_. Dr. Griffin tried her best in the first few months after his father was floated; she helped him recuperate from the pneumonia, walked him through the disease he’d been forced to admit he had, even operated on his heart after he was healthy enough to take the surgery. Yet, there was nothing to be done for his mother. She refused medication and therapy, finally succumbing to her alcoholism after his father’s death. Her demons had taken hold. He stopped showing up to his check-ups with Dr. Griffin, and she stopped caring.

No, there was no one watching over him anymore. Instead he was trapped in a life he never wanted. Every day his mother would take their rations to Nygel and trade them for moonshine. The first time it happened, he went more than a week without food or water, only some moonshine he’d swiped from his mother while she slept, before he stooped to the inevitable. He’d nearly pissed himself working up the courage to do it, but when he pickpocketed an unsuspecting farmer’s ration card, he had his first full stomach in weeks.

The guilt hit him immediately and nearly wrecked him, but this was survival now. At first he only stole the bare minimum, every few days some water, and he never targeted the same family twice. Eventually it grew to a routine, so that the guilt was easier to ignore. This was the person he had to be. And the longer it went on, the more he thought this was the person he’d always been.

 _DiGeorge syndrome presents with a wide variety of symptoms_ , Dr. Griffin had explained. _Many biological symptoms are common, for instance your heart defects, immune deficiency, hyperthyroidism, hypocalcaemia, seizures. Mental effects are also common, but harder to predict. Learning disorders, anxiety, even schizophrenia later in life. Certain personality traits are recognised with the syndrome as well: irritability, introspection…this may seem like a lot to take on at once, but the reality is most of these things have always been there, only it’s just now that we can point to them and identify them for what they really are._

All of those things that his father had said made him unique, they were just side of effects of a chromosomal deletion. The tiniest of tiny things was missing from his DNA and suddenly he couldn’t read or write properly like the other kids and the smallest annoyances could set him off. His mother hadn’t said a word about the diagnosis—hadn’t spoken to him at all since…but then again, she hardly spoke to him even before everything had gone wrong. How terrifying she had been those days, looking at him—barely aged five—like he had been her life’s undoing. Now she looked at him like he was the devil personified, and he was inclined to agree. Time had taught him they were not so different after all.

Kneeling next to her huddled form, Murphy began to wipe the sick off of Emma’s face with his sleeve. He’d have to snag some more clothes from Nygel later; they’d both been wearing the same filthy rags for weeks now. 

“C’mon, time to get up,” he prodded gently, rolling her to her side with little resistance. He slipped his arms under her own in an attempt to haul her up, but she began to regain clarity and fought his grip. “C’mon, help me out here. You need to get up.” She shook her head frantically, clawing at his forearms.

“No. No…” she mumbled. She kept struggling so Murphy was forced to let her go. 

“You’re not well, okay? Can you understand me? It’s time for bed. Doesn’t that sound nice?” he appealed, crouching to her eye level, grasping her face so that she could focus on him instead of getting lost in space.

“Yes,” she answered, insincerely. Whenever she was this way, she reached a brief period of complacency, pretending to understand and be agreeable. This never lasted long though, and the flip side was rough. Murphy eyed her wearily until her eyes widened in recognition. She reached a hand to his face, trying to do hold him by the jaw but only succeeding in slapping him weakly across the cheek. “You. I know you.”

“Yes, you do. We live together.” Murphy found that appeasing her, playing along, when she was bemused and uncomprehending like this worked far better than trying to really explain anything to her.

This was something new, though. She wasn’t just making guesses; something was clicking in her mind. Her eyes shone with a brightness he hadn’t seen in years.

“Eoin?”

The name was sharp, too phonetic: “Ay-oh-in.” Each syllable cutting into old wounds that he would later trace with his razor’s edge just to hear the name again. 

“Eoin. I know you.” She grasped his face purposefully this time, squeezing him between her palms, staring with the intensity of someone fighting to stay above the waterline. 

The tears welled up in the corner of his eyes, hot and demanding, but he wouldn’t let her see him cry. She already thought him a weakling. Grabbing her hands, just erring on the side of too forcefully, he kept her gaze and replied, “No. I’m not him.” And with the admission, his mother’s heart shattered all over again.

“No?”

“No. I’m just your piece of shit son.”

And the demons surfaced. How quickly her eyes changed from hopeful to hateful. She recoiled, drew her hands back from his, and then slapped him again, with new resolve. His cheeks stung and he had a distinct suspicion that the tears had begun to flow.

“You,” she spoke, venom lashing out from her tongue. “It was you!” 

This was familiar. This was right.

“Mom. Please, let’s just get you to bed.” He didn’t dare reach out again, but he didn’t even need to. 

Her limbs jerked without coordination, kneeing him in his face as she scrambled away. “Get away from me!” she howled. “Get away!” He stayed in place. _She’s your responsibility now_ , he repeated to himself. “It was you. It’s all your fault.”

Though he had a feeling the answer was ‘everything,’ he still conceded. “What is?”

“YOU DID IT.” she roared in response. “You KILLED him. You killed your father. You killed your father.”

She didn’t need to slap him this time to leave his skin smarting. Her words were a dagger, a carefully crafted weapon sharpened from repeated consideration, and he’d lent his own mind to the task. He heard her echoing the words as she curled back into herself, the accusation an incantation that had him in a spell. He felt nothing, numbness, bloodless.

He stood, driven by instinct—the metal of his razor singing his name—leaving his mother, sobbing and spewing, behind.

\-------------------------

“John.” He heard his father calling him, and leaned into the sound. “John,” again, pressing this time. He hummed his acknowledgement. _I hear you, dad. I hear you. I’m here_. The brightness begged to open his eyes. 

“Murphy!” His surname pulled him back to reality, pried his eyes open against the sun. “Come on, you bastard, I know you didn’t die that easily.” Luna.

“I’m here,” he voiced, the sudden exertion of air reducing him to strangled coughs and sending a jolt of pain through his body. “Where are you?” he asked barely strong enough to raise his head and look. It wasn’t her that caught his eye first. “FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK.” He shouted and floundered, his body protesting the movement and alerting his senses to the all-consuming pain. A violent scream echoed in the forest. It had come from his throat, but sounded distant, as though this nightmare was happening to someone else. 

Among a sea of crimson-tinged cloth, the tail end of a spear rose from his gut, piercing the air. The last part of his rational brain left functioning told him he had been impaled by the fallen reaper. The spear had him trapped to ground, unable to stand or move.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t feel that anymore.”

“THERE’S A FUCKING SPEAR IN ME. I FUCKING FEEL IT.”

“Yes. You were speared. I tried to remove it, but I’m not at capacity at the moment,” she quipped. He turned his head as far to the left as he could, spotting her leaning, boneless, against another reaper. She looked almost as terrible as he felt. Though every inch of her was matted in dirt and caked with blood, her hands were entirely soaked in the stuff. _His_ blood. She must have been the source of the makeshift bandage bundle around the entry wound. Thinking of the injury only made it ache more. He groaned pathetically, unbearably. The others would have got a real kick out of this; he’d threatened to kill Jasper for complaining of the same wound. 

He looked back to the damage, tears springing to his eyes on a sharp inhale as he jostled the area unintentionally with his limp hand. Did he seriously still have to suffer? Couldn’t the thing be over with by now? He was clearly a goner.

Defying this morbid brand of logic, he moved his hands to check the surrounding area for anything—water, weapons—that could somehow help the situation. He didn’t even fight the tortured yell from spilling out when his hands knocked into the spear, seemingly with a mind of their own. He barely had basic control of his limbs.

“So it’s bad, then,” Luna joked darkly. He laughed despite himself, eliciting another pained moan.

“I’ve seen worse,” he retorted when the pain dulled to a slow burn.

“How do I look?” She queried, no hint of genuine concern in her voice. Even on death’s doorstep she was calm and fearless. In different circumstances he thought he could’ve actually enjoyed their time together, even stuck with her and learned the ways of her people. He could be a grounder if it meant being half as self-assured and strong as she was. Then, the weak always dreamt of one day growing strong.

But even Luna looked weak like this. Her body sported a seemingly infinite number of blackened (some still wet and ripe) lacerations. A particularly nasty set of deep claw-like gashes traversed her face, the blood a mask that clung to her eyes so that he couldn’t see the true extent of the damage. He could spot the jagged end of a bone breaking skin about mid-thigh, while one arm hung uselessly at her side—the elbow twisted at an unnatural angle. It was impressive enough that she was still breathing.

Logically, they both should have been dead. He had no idea the true extent of what they’d faced; only now in the daylight did he see how miraculous their survival was. The scene around him was nothing short of a massacre, at least a dozen bloody bodies, and she’d killed all but one of them. He almost wished he could have seen it happen, imagining Ares reincarnated taking the animals down one by one. She was a beast. In a twisted way, the blood suited her.

“Never better,” he replied finally. “I’d totally do you—if I wasn’t dying.” She snorted, which said more than words really. For a moment he feared she might take him seriously, think he was using his imminent death to profess his highest degree of vulgarity. A rock hurled in his general direction ironically succeeded in defeating the tension.

“Neither of us is dying today,” she informed him.

“Okay, boss. I can wait until tomorrow.”

“You had better.” She brushed off his sarcasm expertly, as if she’d known him longer than any of the 100. “I’ve sent Romulus in the direction of your camp with a distress note. Let us hope it falls in the right hands.”

That made Murphy want to (affectionately) throw a rock in her general direction. A sharp pain in his shoulder distracted him from the idea. _Fuck_. _The arrow_. He’d fallen on it and managed not to notice until just then. The shaft must have snapped off on impact; that meant the arrowhead was deeply embedded. If he could see it, he’d guess it was coming out the other side, mostly because it hurt like a bitch. But everything hurt like hell, so he couldn’t clearly consider and rank them at the moment. Thinking at all was becoming increasingly difficult. He had to keep talking. Stay awake.

“I’m glad you, a blind girl, have placed our survival in the hands of a goddamn bird. Who doesn’t even have hands, by the way,” he slurred sleepily, his head lolling to the side. There was no reply, her shallow breathing the only audible noise around.

Well. If she could sleep, then so could he.

\-------------------------

He had really messed up this time, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stand to hear the screams anymore. Every single time he closed his eyes, it was all he heard. When he slept, if he slept, he dreamt of it happening over and over.

 _Please, please. I’m begging you, Thelonious. My son, John, he needs me. My wife is sick. They have no one else. Please. Don’t do this._

Thelonious was unyielding. _They have each other_.

 _Thelonious, please, listen to me. Please! I’m begging you! Please!_ And a soundless scream was burned into Murphy’s eyes as the airlock opened and sucked the life out of his father’s lungs.

He snarled, pounding his fist against his skull and willing the thoughts away.

There was no escape. His father was in his head, before his eyes, materialising in the air to plead for the life he’d already lost. His mother, too. Every time he opened the door he expected to see her dead stare turned up at him, head haloed by a pool of her own vomit. Sometimes he’d toss and turn in bed, roll over and find her lifeless eyes staring back into his.

This was punishment, he knew, for dumping her body out of the airlock, but he had had no other choice. He was the Scared Little Boy, barely eleven at the time, and his only thought was that he had killed his parents, and no one could know. He knew how to work the airlock anyways; he’d remembered everything about that day. 

No one was the wiser; he’d stopped going to school ages ago and his mom had been written off ‘sick’ from work for years. No one gave a kid like him a second glance as he dodged through the halls.

He’d resorted to exchanging favours with Nygel—his hands the only real skill he possessed, equally strong and nimble, good for pick-pocketing and fighting. He was both his mother and his mother’s worst nightmare. Apparently, anxiety and depression weren’t the only things that ran in the family. He barely traded for food or goods anymore, always settling for the moonshine or anything that would stop the pain and take him out of his own head. It had all been harmless, but today he’d done a truly terrible thing.

He wished he could say it had all been Nygel’s idea, but this fuck-up was entirely his own to bear. All he’d down in the past was steal meaningless little things, novel things for a niche market with average value. That and the odd necessity for himself. That’s how this had started out too, but then it became something else unforgivable.

All he had been after was some rope. 

\---

It was a simple in and out job. The zero-G mechanic was out on her own business, and the storage supply was unguarded at this hour. He had the rope in hand and was on his way out when he heard the voice drawing him back into the chamber.

 _John. Help me, son._

And there he was. His father, caught in the airlock, a guiding hand pressed to the glass. His feet ghosted towards the window. There was an invisible string pulling his hand towards his father’s, spreading fingers like his mirror image. The last time he’d seen his father, their hands were worlds apart. When had he grown so big? When had this become his life?

"How are you here?" he asked. He'd seen his father get sucked into the void, the Ark's graveyard, strangled to death by emptiness, and yet he was here before his eyes alive as ever. It was a miracle. It was too good to be true. His dad didn't seem to hear his doubt from behind the thick glass pane.

 _Let me in_ , he mouthed the words ringing clear in his mind. _Let me in, John. I miss you._ He wanted to come back inside. He wasn't meant to be out there in space. He was meant to be at home, playing cards late into the night when John was too anxious to fall asleep. But no matter how much he wished he could, Murphy couldn't open the doors to the airlock—not when it was already in use. The mechanic could be back at any moment.

"I miss you too, dad," he spoke. The words lingered in the small space that separated them. They were a mere three inches apart, but he still felt so far. "I miss you so much, but I can't. I can't let you in."

Eoin erupted, slamming his palm on the glass. It was as if the refusal had caused something in his mind to snap. _John! Open the door right now!_

No, he shook his head wildly and stepped backwards. This was not the father he remembered. This was not his father. This was a hallucination. But he couldn't shake a sense of responsibility to the man before him. What if none of this was ever real? Or what if nothing had been real up until this moment?

The locks on the door were disengaging before he even realised he'd pulled the manual override. His father grinned maniacally backed at him. Murphy turned to see his traitorous hand on the lever, and when he faced the airlock again his father had vanished. Gone just as suddenly as he had come.

He was nothing but another voice in his head, steering him to hell. 

" _Manual override activating in one minute. Airlock equilibrium not established, please vacate the premises_."

What had he done? Murphy could hear the oxygen hissing through the cracks as the door prepared to open. He was going to kill them all. _But they should all float anyways. Criminals get floated, still there were criminals running free. Jaha was sitting at the head of the council, but he was the worst of them all. He'd killed more than anyone else. None of them was innocent. Everyone was lawless on the Ark if they wanted to survive._ Murphy shook his head hysterically trying to expel the voices that lived there.

" _30 seconds 'till airlock equilibrium_."

Murphy scrambled out of the trance and into action. It was getting more difficult to breathe in the room, so he pulled at the handle in vain. Nothing happened. It seemed to only work in one direction. Who designed shit like this? There had to be another switch, button, something somewhere. His eyes hunted the room for another possibility. 

" _10…9…8…_ "

There, on the wall, he spotted a row of switches. One at the end was bright red, labelled “Emergency” in bold letters. This certainly qualified. He sprung forward to flip the switch just as the airlock's inner doors groaned and began to part. In a split second the outer doors slammed shut as the inner doors flew open, sounding the alarm and flashing red crisis lights throughout the entire chamber.

His eyes trained on the mechanic's severed tether.

People shouted in the distance, triggering his flight reflex. Without another thought he reached for the rope and set off running, the word _murderer_ beating around his brain.

\---

He'd made it to the apartment in record time, avoiding all of the guard units mobilised to respond to the emergency. He'd been pacing the room since then, reliving his life's every disaster in his head. At every turn he saw his mother jeering at him. Her spiteful voice rang out, cackling, mocking, taunting him. _Killer! You're a killer!_

"I am. I'm a killer. I killed you, and dad and—and the fucking mechanic…" He surrendered himself to the voices. "I'm a killer," he sobbed, sinking to his knees and clutching the stolen rope between his quaking hands. 

_And what do killers get?_ his mother pressed, hovering over his shoulder and leaning to whisper in his ear.

"Killers get killed." He choked on the words as sobs sent shock-waves through his body. His throat tightened and he gasped for air. Then his mother was gone. She was satisfied; he'd finally come to the right answer.

The air slowly filled his lungs again, and he clambered to his feet. As he stared at the rope held in his hands, his breathing evened. He'd found his resolve. 

"Killers get killed, and I'm a killer." With nearly inhuman focus, he silenced the voices and looped the rope over and over, at first tentatively then falling into stride. Aiming for the rafters, he threw the knot up and over. For a moment, it was as if he and his body were separate entities. His hand mechanically dragged his only chair to the centre of the room, and his legs climbed onto the seat; all the while, his head—for the first time in years—was clear, blissfully empty. There was no one there but him. He stared, unfeeling, at the noose hanging level with his eyes.

This was his punishment, at last. Finally paying for his crimes…not a favour to himself. Yet, he couldn't help but see this inevitable end as a welcome release. For years he'd tried to suppress fantasies about this moment; now he was unafraid. There was no hell worse than the one he was living.

He'd suspected me might have second thoughts, but strangely there were none. His body was numb, his mind quiet. All he felt was resignation. He grabbed the noose, slipping it over his head and tugging on the end to make sure it was taught. The rope constricted his throat, making him gag. It was time. 

Squeezing his eyes shut and inhaling deeply, he tipped the chair over. It toppled to the floor soundlessly. He dropped a few inches before the rope retaliated, throttling his neck and jerking his body upwards. He felt the familiar sensation of panic coming on as his lungs tried and failed to fill themselves with air. His limbs thrashed in response, fighting their fate, but he willed himself to stay calm. Pitiful empty gasps sounded from his throat, and his chest swelled in accompaniment. His lungs, though empty, felt like they might burst from behind his ribs at any second.

 _Just a few more_ , he thought, _few more seconds, mom_. Phantasms of his parents swam in his vision, before it faded to black.

"Open the door!" 

_I'm coming._

There was a loud crash, door slamming against the wall, and a young guardsman barrelled into the room.

"Shit. Shit!" He rushed forward, grabbing the swinging boy by his legs. "I need help! Quick!" he yelled in a frenzy. He hoisted the boy up to relieve the pressure on his throat. It took some shuffling and several attempts to get the noose from around his neck, and he laid the boy on the ground with as much care as his shaking arms could muster. He looked so young. Barely a teenager. The idea that a child could come to the conclusion that this was the only option made bile rise in his throat.

He was so disturbed he struggled to remember the first-aid course he'd been studied for the cadet exam. Deep breaths. He closed his eyes, focusing, and pressed two fingers to the boy's neck, praying for a pulse. 

"Fuck!" he panicked, pressing deeper, searching.

A faint pulse, weak and slowing but there nonetheless, found his fingertips. He leaned forward to check the boy's breathing next. Nothing. He was full-on hyperventilating by this point. He'd only been a cadet for a few months now and had never expected to face this so soon. No one had committed suicide on the Ark in decades.

"Right, tilt the head back," he spoke to reassure himself. "Lift the chin, pinch the nose." He inhaled sharply, and breathed into the boy’s mouth. _One, two, three, four, five._ And again. He counted along with the breaths and concentrated on the counting to keep composed. In his periphery, he could see the boy's chest rising and falling along with the rhythm.

Suddenly, a flock of senior guards rushed through the doorway and pushed him aside.

"What do you think you're doing?" his commander barked, pulling him to his feet by the collar.

"He wasn't br-breathing, sir," he explained, words tripping over his tongue on the way out. He glanced back down to where the guards were dragging the lifeless boy to his feet. He hadn't saved him.

The commander surged forward, trapping his jaw in a vice-like grip. "Don't ever do that again, do you understand me? Never." All he could do was blink incredulously. The man was making no sense. "We don't save criminals. They've made their choice." His eyes widened, appalled by the savage reality of his words.

"But he's just a kid, sir. He should go to the Skybox." The logic was sick. How did they expect him to stand idly by while a child hung himself?

"Commander Reagan, sir," another guard interrupted. "He's still breathing."

He was close enough to see the muscles twitch in the commander's jaw—no doubt from the exertion of holding back several choice expletives. Even the anger of his superior couldn't stop the wave of relief that hit him when he realised the boy would live.

"We have to take him to Dr. Griffin. He has a medical tag."

"Fine," Commander Reagan barked, spittle flecking his face due to their proximity. "Get him out of my sight." The guard nodded, and the others quickly obliged, taking the boy from the room.

"You want to save criminals boy?" The commander demanded, turning on him. "Huh? You know what you just did? Of course you don't or you wouldn't have done it! He's just a waste of air. These animals don't deserve it. You let them kill themselves, boy, if that's what they want. Save us the trouble." He finally released his grip on his shirt. "This is on you now." The words were delivered like a cross to the face. The commander eyed him with disgust, then stalked out of the room, making it halfway down the hall before stopping to bellow, "Bellamy!"

"Coming, sir!" he shouted, taking a last look at the noose swinging above him before following behind.

\-------------------------

There was someone looming over him, when he awoke again. He thought it might have been Luna at first, but this person was much bigger, shoulders broad enough to block the offending sun. The person's face slowly came into focus. 

"Murphy," he breathed, sounding far more relieved than he should. "He's awake," he threw over his shoulder.

"Good," answered Luna, voice sounding strained. That didn't bode well.

"Hey, Murphy. I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?" 

He was so tired, he couldn't even muster up a sarcastic response. "Okay." Bellamy looked like he'd been slapped in the face, shooting Luna some sort of look, which was weird 'cause he'd probably never been so nice to him in his life, besides the whole cliff ordeal.

"Right, this is going to hurt, pretty badly, but I need to pull the spear out of the ground so that we can move you." Bellamy spoke surely trying to comfort him, but his eyes gave away his fear. "It will help if you stay still, all right?" He laid a strong hand on his chest, eyeing the rest of his body, unsure of how to best position himself.

"Wait," Luna spoke up. Murphy turned his head lazily to see her wincing and dragging herself through the dirt. Bellamy moved to help her, but she waved him off. He sat back on his heels and waited patiently as she crawled up by his head. "Get his legs and I’ll hold down his arms." For a moment, Murphy thought Bellamy might lash out at being commanded by a stranger, but he just nodded and moved to straddle Murphy's legs. Luna leaned forward and put her good arm across his collarbone to restrain his upper half. She looked him directly in the eyes, making no assurances like Bellamy. This would hurt like hell, and she knew it. "Don't pull it all the way, or he might bleed out," she instructed.

They both pushed down, as Bellamy pulled on the spear, giving Murphy no warning. All he saw was the bright whiteness of pain, as the serrated edge of the spear re-entered his back and sawed through his flesh. He clamped his teeth down to prevent the cries of anguish, reflexively arching his back away from the source. Bellamy moved his hand to the tender area just by the wound to hold him down. It worked better but hurt even worse.

The pain took over his senses, and it seemed like forever that Bellamy was drawing on the spear.

Then it was over. Bellamy's hands roamed around his torso, checking for further damage. "It's good, it's out." Luna fell back in exhaustion. He was no better, free to move but too weak to do so. The fatigue was taking over, closing his eyes. "Hey, Murphy. You gotta stay awake." He tapped him on the cheek, and Murphy reluctantly opened his eyes again. "You have to get up. I'm going to take you back to camp, and Dr. Griffin can help you." He was speaking as if Murphy was a child, but Murphy couldn't bring himself to give a shit.

"You, what's your name?" he asked the Sea Kru leader.

"That's Luna. She found me in the desert." Bellamy looked at him like he was talking nonsense and turned to Luna instead.

"Luna.” He was remembering. "You know Lincoln?"

"Yes, we have met."

Bellamy nodded again, as if making sense of the little things could help him figure out what to do next. "I need to get him to his feet. You both need a doctor, soon, or…"

Luna shook her head at the mere suggestion. "No. I can't help you," she stated. "I'll only slow you down. Take your friend and go. You can use my stead; she ran from the attackers but won't be far. John will know how to find her." She looked to him then. "You tell your leaders what I told you. Romulus will find you and show you the way back to my people. When you get there, ask for Aspen, she is my second and will—"

"No, not happening. I'm not going to do that," he interjected, struggling to sit up. Bellamy jumped in to hold him up. "I may be an asshole, but we're not leaving you." She returned his firmness with an equally stubborn glare. 

"You are not an asshole. _Ju es strun, kum warer._ " This was the closest to yielding he could have hoped for. 

Bellamy looked between them in confusion. "We're all going to Alpha station. Right, Luna?" She nodded once. 

"Great. Can we do something about the giant twig sticking out of my gut, first, though?" They both looked to Luna for guidance. She was silent for a minute, calculating.

"You," she spoke to Bellamy. "Look for a stone, anything hard, not too tall. Then turn him on his side. I'll get the axe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ju es strun, kum warer._ = You are strong, like a warrior.
> 
> I know I said the others would show up in this chapter, but I spoke too soon. I've decided to add a bit to the end of the whole thing, 'cause it seemed a bit lacking in Murphamy upon re-reading. Thus, now five chapters instead of four.
> 
> That's enough from me. Hope y'all enjoyed it.


	4. Forgive Me Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bellamy apologises profusely, and Murphy thinks his mouth is better suited for other things.

Bellamy had been trying to keep up conversation for hours now, which was difficult considering Murphy wasn’t really fond of him, their grounder travelling partner wasn’t much in the way of words, and he’d never really been much of a talker himself either. He had a feeling Murphy might stop breathing if he fell asleep (or passed out more likely), so he sucked it up and talked a bunch of nonsense to keep him awake. He asked about Jaha and if they’d found the City of Light, where Craig and Harris were, things about his journey. When it became clear Murphy didn’t want to elaborate on it, he changed the topic to their present situation.

“What exactly happened to you back there?” Bellamy looked between Luna, limping alongside the carizou with a makeshift crutch, and Murphy, who sat in front of him, supported by his arms to keep from falling over and disturbing the piece of the spear still left in his stomach. “Who were those people?” He’d seen the carnage, but the scene was so chaotic, he couldn’t quite make sense of what had happened.

Murphy leaned into him, getting comfortable as if he was planning on nodding off, but Bellamy didn’t have it in him to push the kid off just yet. Plus, the blood he felt wetting his clothes was alarming and must have made it difficult for Murphy to sit straight. He felt weak, pliable, against his chest. “Reapers,” was his eventual reply. “A horde of them.” That didn’t make any sense…

“Not exactly,” Luna amended. She paused their pace for a moment to readjust the tourniquet on her thigh, their mount halting beside her. Bellamy didn’t offer his help, knowing she’d just refuse it. “They are part of another clan—nomads who pillage to survive. They must have thought us easy targets.”

Murphy scoffed at the possibility. “ _Eedotae_. She killed them all.” He informed him of this with an eerie sense of pride. 

“Not all. John is a valuable asset in a fight.” She didn’t elaborate, but Murphy seemed to sit up straighter at the compliment. 

He twisted slightly to more face Bellamy but winced in pain and decided against it. Bellamy instinctively moved his hand to Murphy’s hip in an attempt to steady him. He half –expected Murphy to slap his hand away but he was far too distressed to notice. “Surprised, Blake?” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Yeah. I thought for sure you’d tripped and fallen on your own spear,” he teased. Luna slapped the carizou on its flank, and they continued on towards the camp.

“How much further you think it is?” Murphy questioned, leaning back into Bellamy’s chest. If his demeanour was anything to go by, Murphy was certainly out of sorts. Normally Bellamy would expect a swift punch to the face if he even attempted to lay a hand on him. The boy clearly thought everyone was out to hurt him (and he was right to, Bellamy reminded himself, ashamed). Perhaps distance really did make the heart grow fonder, or at least the trust grow stronger.

Bellamy didn’t even notice he had forgot to answer the question until Luna spoke up, pulling him from his thoughts. “Not far now; we should be there within the hour.” He turned to her, eyebrow raised. At this pace, they were at least a three hours ride from camp. She just nodded pointedly at Murphy, as if he somehow explained that white lie. He was so concerned trying to understand her subtle hints that he almost didn’t hear Murphy start babbling nonsense to the carizou. So long as he was talking…

“Hang in there, Murph,” Bellamy reassured. “Just a little longer and Dr. Griffin can fix this up.” He didn’t anticipate the crazed laugh that escaped Murphy’s lips in response.

“Dr. Griffin…saving me…again…that’s rich,” he cackled as if they all got the joke. “She hates me!”

Bellamy sighed. Murphy had no idea how right he was. “You and me both; none of the adults are happy with us right now. You’ll hear all about it when we get back.”

“You’re an adult,” Murphy countered as if that was the important part of what he had just said.

“I guess…”

“No, you are. You’re 21…or 30…or 50 or something. I’m only sixteen; that’s why they sent me down here instead of killing me.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Bellamy replied. In his current state, talking to Murphy was like reasoning with a toddler. His thoughts simply defied logic.

“They should have let me die…would have saved me a lot of trouble.” The words sent a pang of guilt through Bellamy’s chest. He’d heard this type of talk before but not from Murphy. It had hurt back then just as much as it did now. He would never understand how people could think like that. Sure, Murphy had done terrible things, but so had he. They all had. The council had played gods up in space while the rest of them either died silently or went out with a fight. Down on the ground, they were lawless. Living with what he had done was torture, but he was living with it. He couldn’t imagine ever…he couldn’t imagine it.

“Don’t say that shit, okay? Or I’m gonna dump your ass out here if you want to die so badly.”

“Touch my ass and you’re dead,” Murphy levelled, suddenly sober. The ridiculousness of the comeback was not lost on Luna, whose face split into a mischievous, knowing grin. What was that about? Murphy grinned back in her direction, reaching a hand out, wordlessly, and she passed him her flask of water.

“Almost forgot,” Murphy interjected, drawing a piece of cloth from his pocket.

“What’s that?”

“Blindfold,” he replied curtly, tossing it to Luna who let it smack her in the face before grabbing it with her working hand.

“Why…?” It was already dark outside; what could she possibly need a blindfold for?

“Seriously? You didn’t notice she was blind? Fucking idiot!” Murphy laughed mirthfully. He was thoroughly amused by Bellamy’s obliviousness.

“Hey! I—It’s dark, okay? I didn’t know,” he sputtered, trying to excuse his mistake. They could hardly blame him! She was ridiculously well-adjusted. And he’d never even met anyone blind before.

Luna said nothing about this revelation, just tossed the blindfold back to Murphy. “Keep it. For training.” He smirked, lifting his arms to tie the cloth around his eyes but dropped them as a jolt of pain ran through his body. Bellamy steadied him again, bringing a hand around to take the blindfold from him. Murphy was stubborn as a mule and would never ask for help; it was better to just do it himself.

Murphy held his breath as Bellamy brought the cloth over his eyes, only exhaling after he had secured a knot in the back and withdrew his hands. “Thanks, Bell,” he said in his trademark sardonic tone that made even a sincere thanks sound sarcastic.

“Whatever. I’m not even going to ask what the hell this is about,” Bellamy huffed, placing his hands very purposefully on his own thighs and away from Murphy. That didn’t stop Murphy from reclining his head onto Bellamy’s shoulder and whispering, breath uncomfortably near his neck.

“Whatever you say, boss…”

\-------------------------

“Stop! Who’s there?”

Bellamy recognised Monroe’s voice from above the gate. He silently thanked whatever power was responsible for putting someone in his favour on watch tonight. “It’s Bellamy!” He shouted up to her. “We need Dr. Griffin, quick!” He heard Monroe giving orders to the other guards and frenzied footfalls, then the gate creaked slowly open. They wasted no time moving inside the walls and laying Murphy on the ground. He’d passed out minutes from reaching their destination and was wholly unresponsive.

“Who’s she?” Monroe whispered, as they turned Murphy on his side. Right on cue, he roused from his slumber in a violent coughing fit that sent blood flying all over the ground and Bellamy’s boots. He knelt down, keeping a firm grip on Murphy’s shoulder.

Bellamy glanced over to where Luna was collapsing next to her animal. Her breath was erratic, coming in short wheezes. He was amazed she had managed to make it on her own feet, considering only one of them worked at the moment. Walking was the last thing she should have been doing but the stalwart grounder had insisted on it. 

“She’s a friend.”

Without warning, she was being hauled to her feet by one of Kane’s men and shackled. The commander, surprisingly, didn’t even put up a fight, proving yet again that she was nothing like the other grounders they had met.

“Hey! What are you doing? She’s with me!” His protests fell on deaf ears as more guards came rushing to the gate, headed by a frantic Abby Griffin.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded upon approach. She knelt to examine the damage on Murphy, who had devolved to pitiful moans.

“He was attacked.” Abby immediately looked to Luna, but Bellamy shook his head. “No, not her. They were travelling together. She was coming to talk to you.”

“Is this true?

Bellamy thought she might not even be dignified with a response, but, deliberately, Luna dipped her chin.

“Fine. Take Murphy to the operating room, immediately,” instructed Abby. “Jackson, prep for surgery. He’s lost a significant amount of blood, and we’ll need to reconstruct some of the inner organs. Find any type AB you can.”

Jackson’s face fell. “Abby…we don’t have any more blood. We used everything after the kids from Mt. Weather came back and were waiting to ask them to donate again…”

They didn’t have time for this. “You can use mine,” Bellamy cut in. “Type O, negative. Universal donor, right?” Abby looked at him, genuine surprise in her eyes, like he was some heartless animal.

“We can’t take it all from you; you’ll die.”

“I can do it, too,” Monroe interjected. “I’m AB negative.” Bellamy clapped her on the back in a show of gratitude. She’d always been at his side and this was no exception.

“Monty and Miller will probably help, if they’re matches.” Abby seemed utterly shocked at their willingness.

“Okay, then. Let’s go—”

“Wait, what about Luna?” he demanded. She was still in handcuffs, but cooperating.

“Bring her too. But she’ll have to wait.”

Bellamy nodded in understanding. He let Abby and the guards go ahead with Murphy, falling behind to speak to Luna.

“I’ll make sure they let you go when this is done. I promise.”

Luna didn’t acknowledge his assurance, instead stating, “You did not receive my distress note, did you?”

“What note?”

“No matter. He is lucky you were around to find us.”

“Right. Lucky.”

\--------------------------

When Murphy next woke it was to three alarming and consecutive realisations. Firstly, he was indoors in a proper room and not lying on the ground outside like he had been for days now. Secondly he was in a bed, wrapped in blankets and strangely comfortable despite the throbbing soreness that filled his body and reminded him he was still alive. And third he was not alone. Bellamy Blake sat slouched on the ground by the cot, where he seemed to have dozed off. As soon as Murphy made the slightest ruffle of the sheets, however, his eyes shot open and fixed on Murphy’s own. He struggled to sit up, somehow embarrassed by appearing weak in front of his…well, he supposed they weren’t really rivals anymore.

Almost immediately at the sign of difficulty, Bellamy lept to his feet and came to his side. “Slow down; you just got out of surgery. You’ll tear your stitches.”

Murphy didn’t respond, too tired to banter, but leaned back against the wall slowly. He didn’t even protest when Bellamy sat at the edge of the bed and pressed a hand to his back to guide him down. 

“Where am I?”

“My room. Sort of. The station’s short on space since we got everyone out of Mt. Weather. Dr. Griffin put you in my old room so no one would bother you.”

“Or so no one sees me still alive and tries to kill me all over again,” Murphy suggested nonchalantly.

Bellamy wanted to say something like, _that’s in the past_ , but the words didn’t sound right in his head. Instead he acted like he hadn’t heard the quip. “We’ll probably be back to the tents in a few days when you’re healed.”

Murphy scoffed, eying him humourlessly. “Just like old times.” The stare made his skin crawl. Somehow, seeing Murphy this broken made him feel like an awful human being. Of course, objectively, this was in no way his fault, but his mind kept flashing to their first days at camp when he’d built up Murphy’s trust just to break it and take all of his own guilt out on the kid. Whenever he looked at Murphy, he saw so many pieces of himself and man had he loathed himself back then. Still now.

“Luna’s with Abby right now. They’re fixing her up, too. Tried to throw her in lock-up at first, but she got Abby to agree to a conversation.” Bellamy thought he should address the unasked question he was certain was at the forefront of Murphy’s mind.

“That’s good,” he replied emotionlessly, but the relaxing of his shoulders indicated he must have been wondering about it at least. “What about the princess? She not in charge anymore? Let me guess, mom got mad that a bunch of teenagers knew better than her and staged a coup. Or—don’t tell me—princess ran off to join her grounder friends.”

“Something like that,” Bellamy muttered. Murphy had no idea how right he was. He’d left camp to look after Clarke no more than a week later. She was long gone by then. He’d considered checking at the grounder capital, but he had no desire to see the Tri Kru again. Their betrayal was logical, but unforgiveable. He couldn’t imagine ever being allies again. Clarke had to feel the same. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she had run to them. She was more of a grounder than any of them, even Octavia. Of the 100, no one had transformed so much as Clarke. He could hardly tell her and Lexa apart. Weeks he had spent in the woods hoping to bring her back to where she belonged, and he had returned empty-handed. The subject was still a sore one with him, and he didn’t want to explain his sudden sourness to Murphy, so he figured now was the time to let him alone. As soon as he stood up though, more abruptly than he intended, Murphy seemed to regret his words.

“Shit, no need to get so upset about it. What are you in love with her or something?”

“This may be a foreign concept to you, but some of us care about other people just because.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I would never understand.”

“Whatever, Murphy,” Bellamy spat, suddenly frustrated with Murphy’s usual standoffish-ness. For a minute he thought they might actually be past all of that, but he should have known Murphy would never let bygones be. The latter made no attempt to stop him as he slammed the door behind him on the way out.

\-------------------------

He was drowning. Or choking. Or hanging. He wasn’t sure about anything except that he couldn’t breathe. He stretched his feet but there was nothing beneath. His feet swung wildly as a crowd of unmoving, unforgiving faces stared from all around. Suddenly his hands broke free of their constraints and the onlookers vanished. Frantically, his hands searched for the rope but there was nothing there.

For a second he thought the torture was over, but then a sea of grounders materialised, surging forward to tie him down to an examination table. The setting was impeccably sterile, distinctly un-grounder, but he would recognise the face hovering above him even in death. The grounder warrior above him, Moni, haunted him every time he closed his eyes, which he did just then in anticipation of the pain. He felt the tip of the dagger inching down his forearm, ever deeper, but he couldn’t scream around the gag in his mouth. The blood flowed freely down his arms and when he cautiously opened his eyes again, he was the one holding the blade.

A shrill laugh from behind startled him from his confused thoughts.

“Mom? What are you doing here?”

No answer. She just continued to cackle, her voice growing more and more hysterical, and her eyes widened—taking over her entire face. Just when he thought her head might explode, she was on him in a flash, hands latched around his throat. She was snarling, foaming at the mouth, and Murphy didn’t know whether to fight against it or let it happen. Then his mother was gone, and his father stood at the far end of an endless vacuum.

“Come with me, John. Don’t fight it.”

The air was gone. He was gasping soundlessly, his lungs seemingly caving in on themselves. This must have been his floating. His father had felt this, and now he would die just the same. It seemed like forever that he was suspended, breathless, but the feeling of choking persisted.

Someone had a hold of him now, was throttling, shouting at him.

“Murphy! Murphy, wake up!” He flailed against the intruder. He wanted to go peacefully, and with every shake his father became ever fainter. The attacker held his arms down and he was forced to open his eyes, his father long gone now. Bellamy leaned over him, eyes searching for some sort of recognition. Instead, his closeness was enough to push Murphy over the edge. He wheezed violently, breath quickening, unable to keep the air in his lungs.

“Are you okay? What’s happening?” Bellamy demanded, genuinely worried but far too close. Murphy was suffocating with the heat and weight of his body over him.

“Get . Off. Me” he forced through alternating clenched teeth and heaving gulps of air. Bellamy either didn’t understand or didn’t care because he stayed hovering over him, prompting Murphy to kick and shove until he fell off of the bed. 

“What the hell?”

Murphy didn’t trouble himself to answer. The blankets were thrown unceremoniously to the floor. He curled in on himself, one hand over his mouth, the other over his heart, as if to slow them both. If he squeezed his eyes tight enough, maybe, finally, the world outside would disappear. Maybe Bellamy would disappear. He stayed like this for some time waiting for his lungs to stop heaving and the hot tears to fade from where they waited ready behind his eyelids. Just when he thought he might be gaining control, Bellamy reached over to lightly hold his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” his voice was fearful, as if the display had shown him Murphy’s true monstrous nature.

Murphy recoiled from his touch as if burned, the concern foreign enough to hurt. “Don’t fucking touch me, he spat, voice too tired to be truly malicious.

“Sorry.” Bellamy’s voice lacked the anger of Murphy’s own. There was a moment of silence, Bellamy unintentionally holding his breath. Then, Murphy, refusing to look in the other’s direction, heard him stand and walk wordlessly to the door. 

“Wait.”

It took a second for Murphy to realise that he was the one who had spoken. Bellamy paused, perhaps solely out of shock, but didn’t turn to face him. What was he supposed to say now? He’d already done the damage.

“You can stay.” Could he? Yes. Yes, he could stay. After all, being alone would supposedly only enable his destructive thoughts and tendencies (at least that’s what the doctor had told his mom).

Neither of them said anything else about it, but Bellamy returned to his spot on the edge of the bed, a fair distance between the two of them. Murphy focused on regular breathing, but even with the panic attack subsiding, he couldn’t bring himself to speak up. He imagined Bellamy wouldn’t cave either, though it seemed, eventually, the tension became too much.

“Better?”

No. “Mhmm.” This must have been unconvincing because next he knew, the bed was dipping down beside him, and Bellamy was leaning just next to him, less than a hair of space separating their sides.

“This okay?”

Murphy thought he might stop breathing again. He might have preferred mutual hatred over this. At the very least, the insults had become familiar. Kindness only unnerved him. Nonetheless, he managed a terse nod, before he could properly think about why he hadn’t tossed Bellamy out yet.

“I’m sorry…” the other boy began. No specifics there, but Murphy could guess. “You were freaking out or something. I heard you from down the hall and thought I’d make sure…” he trailed off, reaching to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck, a nervous habit Murphy had noticed way back when. As if he was conveying the fact that he hardly even knew what he was doing there. “You were calling my name. And your mom and dad. It didn’t sound like a pleasant dream.”

Murphy tilted to face the wall. What was he supposed to say? _Sure, that’s standard. I just dream about everyone trying to kill me every night. Sometimes I even see my dead parents when I’m completely awake._ The guy already thought him a psychopath; best not to feed his negative perceptions.

“You don’t need to be nice to me, Blake. I’m not another doe-eyed kid for you to guide to the path of righteousness or whatever the fuck you think it is you’re doing for them.” _Yeah, that’s it. Attack the only person in camp who gives a shit about you right now._

“I’m not…” Bellamy huffed, then abandoned the thought. _Alienate them before they alienate you._ Both were inevitable. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

He almost looked offended at Murphy’s answering snort. And they all thought he was the crazy one. “The spear impaled me; it didn’t give me amnesia.”

“No—not that. I mean, on the Ark, when you tried to…” he glanced over at Murphy, waving his hands in some vague gesture, not wanting to speak the words aloud. As if that made the difference. There was no need. Murphy knew exactly what he meant. A thing like that never left you; even if he wasn’t consciously thinking on it, it was there, in his every action. “I was the one who found you. Something you said reminded me of it. You looked so much younger then, I never realised.”

Murphy was silent for a while, but Bellamy didn’t dare prod him, for fear that he might snap. He hadn’t been sure about mentioning it, but it had been eating at him since he made the connection yesterday. A slow inhale alerted him to Murphy’s impending response.

“I guess we’re even now.”

Bellamy cocked his head in confusion.

“You saved me once. I saved you once. You tried to hang me once. I tried to hang you once. We’re even.”

For once, Bellamy wished he could go a day without being reminded of what he had done to Murphy that first week on the ground. He’d regretted it the moment he kicked the crate from beneath his feet; couldn’t help but think a lot of lives would have been spared if he’d kept control of the situation. Now he had to live with the mistake. It lingered in his thoughts, right up there with shooting Jaha and letting Octavia go to the ball as his greatest regrets, John was ruthless and unsympathetic, but Bellamy saw now that he had endured more than any kid his age should. Were his actions justified? Were any of theirs? They had all succumbed to Earth logic at one point or another. And they all had to bear the consequences of those choices. Few of them could be made right. But this…

“I’m…sorry,” he spoke slowly. “I never should have done what I did, or said what I said. Doesn’t matter what else happened.” He folded his arms across his chest, unsatisfied with how the words had come out but too strangled to speak any more. He didn’t expect Murphy to forgive him, but maybe to understand. Instead, Murphy defaulted to derisive deflection.

“Wow, that’s sweet of you, Bell. I know it’s hard for you to admit when you’re wrong.” Murphy’s tongue flicked around the shape of his name, laced with poison. “If you’re expecting me to return the apology it’s a lost cause. I did what I needed to do. Everyone gets what they deserve. I don’t feel guilt, and I don’t apologise. Not to you, or anyone else. Definitely not the bastards that strung me up to die.” As he said it, he knew it was untrue. He’d hurt people who didn’t deserve to be hurt. Raven could barely walk because of him, and she’d never done anything to him—not back then at least. Charlotte was dead because of him, but they hadn’t been so different; if she hadn’t killed Wells, he could’ve well come to it himself. He was a killer by nature after all. He’d enabled Finn on his crazed quest to find Clarke, and the guy had paid with his life. Not to mention everything he’d caused on the Ark. Why was he holding on to this grudge with Bellamy? It made no sense. Or maybe it was the only thing that did.

“What the hell is your problem with me?”

“I know you’re an idiot, but even you can figure that one out.”

“Fuck you, you’re deflecting. It’s not about what I did. This is bigger than that. Clearly you despise me as a person. What is it about me that you hate so goddamn much?”

“Everything!” Murphy shouted abruptly, as if the line of questioning had awakened his innermost loathing for Bellamy. “You walk around like you rule the ground and you get to be the fucking hero every day. Always trying to save everyone and keep control.” As for Murphy, he seemed to be losing control himself. He’d launched from the bed and was pacing in front of the door. “You think you can go around this place and save everyone, all mighty Bellamy. But you didn’t save me, did you? And we were friends. Like every other dumbass kid in this camp, I ate up all the bullshit you spewed, but I wasn’t worth your time, was I? I wasn’t worth saving. Even you could see that.” He looked about to storm out of the room. Instead of leaving, he turned around and stalked towards Bellamy. Before the other could even wonder what Murphy was going to do, sharp knuckles were connecting with his face. There went any hope of reconciliation…and some of his blood apparently.

Bellamy reached up to wipe the blood pooling on his lip, and had half a mind to return the favour. Except Murphy seemed to have done more damage to himself than to Bellamy. The boy was doubled over the cot, clutching at his stomach where red was slowly seeping through the dark fabric of his threadbare shirt.

“Fuck,” he murmured, moving Murphy’s hands away—which was achieved with minimal protest—and lifting his shirt up to reveal his healing wound. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I though you—it’s just a cut. You reopened it.” Bellamy absentmindedly checked the rest of his torso for blood, hands roaming on auto-pilot, then, more purposefully, grabbed a wet rag Abby had left at the foot of the bed and pressed it to the open cut. Maybe they just wouldn’t mention the punch; it was probably for the best. Bellamy didn’t look up until some minutes later when Murphy addressed him.

“Why…how come you could see it, but my dad didn’t?” Murphy gazed at him intensely, as if expecting some sort of life affirming answer.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Never mind,” Murphy muttered in reply, looking away, breaking the trance. “There’s no reason for anything anyways.”

“Murphy,” Bellamy said softly. His gut twisted when Murphy immediately looked back to him. He’d been a dick to him, he’d been so much worse, and somehow the ghost of their old camaraderie still lived in Murphy’s mind. “I don’t know what happened with your dad. Whatever it was…I was wrong. I made the mistake. You don’t have to forgive me too, but just try to understand. I was weak. I didn’t have any control and was angry, angry with myself for letting you down and letting Wells down, and all I could think was that I needed to deal with the consequences of losing control. I was just being selfish, only thinking of myself. I thought I was hurting myself. I didn’t even see what I was doing ‘cause—‘cause I’m a huge asshole, okay? I’m an asshole, I know that. But after everything, it was too late to fix anything, and every time I looked at you I knew that we were the same, and I can’t fucking stand who I am, who I’ve become. This is a shit apology, and it’s definitely not an excuse. I just want you to know why…that’s the least that I owe you.”

Murphy remained emotionless, only the slight twitch of his jaw indicating that he was even hearing the crap coming out of Bellamy’s mouth. Granted it had been maybe the worst apology ever given, but what else could he say? _I’m sorry, I cared about you, and you trusted me, and I fucked everything up, and I can’t live with you hating me because I’m tired of trying to hate you back._ He could say that, maybe, but he’d probably take another hit to the face.

“You did deserve to be saved, okay? I fucked up. I did it once, and I’d do it again. And I would be right to.”

“Twice.”

“Twice what?”

“You did it two times. Back on the Ark and yesterday, too. That’s twice you could’ve let me die.”

Bellamy opened and closed his mouth, not sure how to tackle this unexpected response. The absurdity of John giving him any sort of acknowledgement like that was enough make Bellamy smile, which was not lost on Murphy who looked at him as though he were crazy. Maybe they both were. When the silence returned—comfortable this time, Murphy smirked as though he realised something the other didn’t.

“So which one of us is Brutus, then?”

Bellamy was just as surprised as Murphy at the small chuckle that escaped his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he found something funny. And now he was here joking with John Murphy of all people about their mutual attempts at killing Caesar.

“Does it matter?” he responded when calm. “We’re both alive. Just a little bloody.”

\-------------------------

By the following day, Murphy was up and about, meaning he was promptly moved to a permanent residence in the sea of tents stationed outside Alpha. He could have weaselled his way on the station, but he preferred the fresh air and reduced likelihood of claustrophobia that came with sleeping outside. Those that remained of the 100, _not many_ , preferred the same, and constituted the majority of inhabitants in what had become known as GroundTown. He’d had a hard time keeping a straight face when the guard relayed him that piece of information.

Sitting in his own tent, he couldn’t imagine the 100 ever integrating with the others; too much had happened to them that could never be understood. The dissonance would only worsen once the others from Luna’s village arrived.

Speaking of the grounder warrior, she was noticeably absent from his presence. He tried to speak with the chancellor earlier, antsy and eager to deliver his warning now that he had made it there, but the guards had turned him away. She was tied up, they said. Embroiled in some sort of verbal battle with the commander if he had to guess. He couldn’t fathom what was taking so long, but his message would apparently have to wait.

In the absence of a purpose, Murphy had slotted into his new tent to wait his turn, mind already buzzing with thoughts of how he had to leave this place and soon. Murphy had carefully avoided any too familiar faces. Still, just being in the camp reminded him of why he’d left in the first place. They might have all been the same by blood or origin or…maybe nothing at all. One thing was painfully clear; these were not his people. He’d rather be left to his own devices than be surrounded by these false allies.

His thoughts were interrupted by none other than Bellamy violently pulling back the front flap of the tent. Murphy didn’t miss the weary unease in his demeanour, though it was quickly wiped clean from his face. 

“Shit, sorry. I should have knocked. We’re sharing for now, though, so…” he eyed the tent curiously as if inspecting its capacity for two people.

“I’m not even going to ask why.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Bellamy answered unnecessarily, which only made Murphy more suspicious. But he didn’t care. _You’re friends now_ , his mind insisted. Clearly, a load of horseshit. He’d certainly be less outwardly hostile towards the former leader after their chat the previous night, but friends was a relationship that took time to rebuild.

So he answered, uninterested, “Cool,” and laid back slowly on the floor to stare blankly at the ceiling. Hopefully, Dr. Griffin would come to retrieve him when she was free. This nuclear warhead business was time-sensitive and fairly dire, after all. Plus, he was itching to bolt as soon as possible. He’d take them to the City of Light if they wanted, probably should stay to see the thing through as well. If they lived past all of that, he’d deserve some downtime. The possibility that the chancellor would think him a liar briefly crossed his mind. It wasn’t unlikely. But if saving the Earth was left in Murphy’s hands because of it, well, he couldn’t promise any sort of success. He’d have to try of course—civic duty and all that—but he doubted he could do the job alone. Best to envision everything going to plan. And then getting his well-deserved relaxation (which he had hoped the bunker might afford him, but that vacation had been quickly thwarted by a maniacal Jaha). Just as his eyes slipped shut at the thought of rest, Bellamy spoke up.

“Raven told me. About your parents.”

His first reaction was something along the lines of _that bitch_ , but he had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he didn’t follow the revelation with anything, unsure of what he was expected to say. He already relived this past nightly; the days were meant for a different torture. This crossover made his stomach twist. A distant part of his mind warned him that this was just another hallucination.

Without hesitation, he lurched forward and latched his hand around Bellamy’s wrist. He could feel the faint pulsing of blood beneath his fingertips. Satisfied that this wasn’t a creation of his mind, he released Bellamy’s wrist. To Bellamy’s credit, he didn’t flinch. Nor did he ask for an explanation. The elevated _thump thump_ of his heartbeat, however, gave away his nerves. 

“I didn’t ask. I know it’s not my business. She just saw us come back and…she was worried.”

Another omission, surely. But it didn’t matter. Raven could do whatever she wanted. He’d taken away her leg; nothing she did could ever even the score.

“What of it?” he reclined again, fixing his eyes back on the ceiling.

Bellamy sighed, a little too dramatically for this time of morning, but the man was nothing if not melodramatic. Everything was a serious matter with him. When he spoke again, his voice was considerably closer than before. “Nothing. I’m not going to make you talk about it. Just, it seems like your dad really cared. It’s hard to understand what people do…for people they love.” He paused then, looking past Murphy into his own history. He’d done so many inexplicable things. And he would do them again and again. “You can’t put that on yourself, Murphy. He did what any father should do for their son. And your mother…we all say things we don’t mean. You can’t take it to heart. And you can’t keep thinking it’s your fault. If you think you deserve to die for that, you’re wrong. So just stop. Stop thinking, that you should die. Because you’re alive, and you’re alive because your dad saw something better in you than you see in yourself. But if he saw it, it must be there. And you can’t keep pretending that you’re the villain. You can’t keep thinking everything is your fault.”

“Shut up,” Murphy responded, voice even. “You don’t get to talk about things you don’t understand. Just because you _heard_ something from someone doesn’t mean you _know_ anything.”

Bellamy’s voice inched ever closer. “Maybe you should enlighten me, then.” Murphy refused to answer. “I know you’re not as bad as you seem. We’re all messed up somehow by someone.”

“No one messed me up,” he snarled, still avoiding Bellamy’s prying eyes. He didn’t deserve to know anything. But Murphy certainly didn’t deserve to get away with what he’d done, yet here was Bellamy all but offering to absolve him of his sins. “She was sick. My mother wasn’t the things I thought she was. I just didn’t understand then. She was broken and I thought I could build her back up, but, y’know, my head wasn’t on right.” He was tired of being told things that were untrue, but Bellamy must have mistaken his admission for openness. Bellamy’s hand found his knee urging him on and keeping him grounded. This was the Bellamy he was weak for. Disdain for the man still burned in the back of his mind, but once he’d thought they could be good for each other, together. His head was quieter then. Quieter now. Sometimes he made it quiet again. It was hard to stay mad when his head was this clear. The freedom from the voices and visions was like a new high of its own. It made him someone else: calm, easy, fine. It made him forthcoming, and he didn’t mind until the voices started arguing again. 

“She loved me once, but she just forgot. And I let us forget.” It was Murphy’s turn to look deep into the past, eyes hazy with regret. “If you’re looking for proof that I’m a good guy, then you can stop looking. I’ve always been the bad guy.”

“Stop saying that—”

“Nothing made me this way, okay? I made the bad things in my mind all on my own.”

“No. That’s bullshit.” Bellamy’s voice was rising, strangely impassioned considering they had only really come to amicable terms again the night before. “I don’t believe you and I don’t think you believe yourself.”

Murphy was growing annoyed. Bellamy Blake didn’t know anything. He didn’t even know what was in his head half the time; can’t make decisions without Princess Clarke there to hold his hand. That’s why he had the look of a lost puppy plastered permanently on his features nowadays. He sat up, ready to ream him, but in the fraction of a second it took Murphy to lean up, Bellamy had pushed forwards. Suddenly he was forced to the ground again by the weight of another body on his and the heat of Bellamy’s mouth invaded all his senses. The world was black save for chapped lips and a shaky exhale. And it was quiet. So quiet.

His mind could barely process the sudden shift of events, and before he could respond Bellamy was pulling back, the slightest twinge of a blush brushing his cheeks, mostly hidden by the freckled tan of his skin.

The voices came then, some his own and some altogether foreign, suggesting that perhaps he run, or at least move. His limbs were still, paralysed by indecision.

“I’m—”

“If you say I’m sorry again, I will punch you in the mouth. With my fist.” He couldn’t stand this side of Bellamy. Why the sudden lack of commitment? He had been rough, commanding, inflexible when they’d first landed. He’d always been heavy-handed with Murphy. Now he was apologetic and inconsistent, speaking so slowly he barely knew where he was going. False care and awkwardness did no one favours, certainly not Murphy. Lave me or leave me alone was more his style. “You’re gonna shove me to the ground and then apologise for it? Make up your damn mind, Blake.”

They were both staring openly at each other now, calculating the other’s next move. Bellamy’s brow furrowed in confusion. Murphy didn’t see why; he’d made it plainly simple. With his eyes trained on Bellamy’s own, he nearly missed Bellamy’s hand snaking around his waist. His hand was like a fever against his clammy skin, and he leaned subconsciously into the touch. Murphy glanced down briefly at the point of contact, their staring contest having grown nearly as heated, and found himself tilting back into the radiating warmth of Bellamy’s body. This was new to him. The last time anyone had touched him so tenderly was years and years ago, forgotten along with the other painfully happy memories of his parents and better times. Down here they only touched him if they meant to hurt him.

But this was new and different. And he thought it could be good, even if it was Bellamy. Or maybe because if was Bellamy. Bellamy who had cared and showed that he still did. Bellamy who knew him, knew his worst parts, and hadn’t run yet. Bellamy whom he idolised; whom he wanted to please and whose favour he wanted to earn.

When they met again in the middle, he wasn’t sure if he’d pushed or been pulled. And he didn’t dare waste a second thinking about it. Their mouths moved together achingly slow. It was tame, and gentle, and so many things he hadn’t expected. He’d been incarcerated years ago and dropped out of school even earlier; not only was he inexperienced in this realm of interaction, but he was also largely uninterested. 

Despite his reservations, something told him that this was okay. Bellamy wasn’t trying to hurt him. He trusted him. He wasn’t sure Bellamy deserved that trust yet, but nonetheless he let his hands linger.

Bellamy could sense Murphy tensing up, and splayed his fingers of his right hand across the boy’s waist, ever so slightly skimming over his ribs. He visibly calmed, relaxing into Bellamy’s hold. Right as Murphy felt they were settling into a rhythm, Bellamy pulled away just enough to breathe.

“What now?” he asked, attempting to inject some sort of indifferent edge into his voice, but it only came out sounding breathless and bothered. Bellamy smirked at the effect a simple, chaste kiss had had on Murphy’s bearing. It annoyed Murphy enough to consider kissing him hard and fast to wipe it off his face. 

“You didn’t say no.” They were a mere breath’s distance apart, the ghost of Bellamy’s words lingering on Murphy’s lips. “You could’ve said no.”

Now he was just talking nonsense. “Does this look like a no to you?” Murphy enunciated, taking the initiative this time and pressing his lips to Bellamy’s. He wasted no time sweeping his tongue across the crease of Bellamy’s lips and then parting them. This seemed to flip a switch in Bellamy’s mind, and he promptly took charge again, invading Murphy’s open mouth, licking him inside out. Their competing tongues made it a wet, sloppy affair, but Murphy didn’t care in the least. It was intoxicating. Bellamy tasted like Earth and reason, and he didn’t want to stop. 

It took a moment for Murphy to register the ragged, panting breaths as coming from his own lungs. He might have been embarrassed any other time by the effect Bellamy was having on him, but right now he could only think _more_. Bellamy, himself was far from immune to the influence. He was hungry, all but wrestling Murphy into his lap with a firm grip on his ass, and his other hand tangled in Murphy’s grimy, matted hair. It was all Murphy could do to twist his fists into Bellamy’s shirt and hang on. Being upright was no good; his head began to float, so quiet it was as if his mind wasn’t even there. He wavered momentarily, perched on Bellamy’s lap and tempted by the friction the position was offering him—the tension in his thighs even causing him to quake—before deciding for the both of them and pushing Bellamy backwards. 

Bellamy went down willingly, but didn’t hesitate to flip Murphy over onto his back. He melded their bodies flush against each other, dipping down to press heated, open-mouthed kisses along Murphy’s jawline. Sudden contact of their hips caused Murphy to wince; a tender spot from his run-in with the raiders had been left just on the side there. He’d wager a bruise was blooming. Immediately at the sound of distress, Bellamy pulled back.

“You all right?” He dragged Murphy’s shirt up to check that his stitches were still in place. Maybe he was a bit paranoid about it, but Murphy was already so fragile, he couldn’t risk being the cause of even more pain. Luckily everything seemed to be in order. 

“Stop talking.” Murphy retorted, grabbing his shirt and bringing Bellamy back down to his level. 

He obliged, and lay propped on his left elbow. His free hand skated over Murphy’s stomach, carefully avoiding the sores. Murphy didn’t seem to mind, and it made him feel…something he wasn’t yet sure how to describe. It made him feel important that he was allowed to do so. The warm thoughts must have split his face into a stupid grin, because then Murphy was kissing him, perhaps just to stop him from talking. Things were quickly getting heated, and could have gone into completely new territory if not for the interruption.

“Bellamy, have you seen—oh wow, sorry.” Monty had peered in through the front flap and caught a quick glimpse of Bellamy and Murphy enthusiastically sucking face. He quickly turned about to face the wall, clearly embarrassed.

Bellamy half-heartedly sat back on his heels to await further information, since he assumed there was some important reason for Monty’s intrusion.

“The chancellor wants to speak with Murphy. I thought you might know where he was, but I see…”

“You thought right,” Murphy quipped, rising to his feet, having regained his composure and snarky demeanour impressively fast. He only spared Bellamy a momentary glance, in which the other might have imagined some sort of reluctance, before leaving to find Dr. Griffin.

Monty was still rooted to the spot at the tent’s entrance. Whatever he was about to say, Bellamy was sure he didn’t care to hear it. Monty had been his best ally since Clarke’s departure, but he’d been gone for weeks now looking for her, and he couldn’t assume he was on allied ground with anyone anymore.

“So you and Murphy, huh? Miller will be pleased.”

Monty looked a little too thrilled himself. “What are you talking about?” They were well past the point of deny, deny, deny, but maybe if he played dumb Monty would just drop the subject.

“We might have placed bets on the if and when of it.”

There really was no it, but he didn’t want to talk about that with Monty. “Of fucking course you did.”

“He was a firm believer in sooner rather than later. Looks like I’ll be brewing some moonshine tonight. Maybe we could all use some.” He gave Bellamy a pointed look with raised brow and slowly backed out of the tent.

Moonshine sounded fantastic right about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took quite a while, but I'm in the midst of about six weeks of consecutive exams and finals, so it's all slow going. Will be as prompt as possible with the last chapter.
> 
> Not beta-read; please do comment if you notice any errors, or if you just liked/didn't like it of course.
> 
> (also I ran out of "S" songs by Among Savages to use as chapter titles, so it kind of threw off my title game)


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